“I’ll bet my life it does!”
“You feel sometimes you’ll have to hide under the counter to get away from all the faces opposite. Then you get all right again, and go on. But I mustn’t take up your time like this.”
“That’s all right. What’s your name?”
“They always call me Rummy.”
“Why?”
“Oh, an old major who comes in a lot said some time ago he was going to call me Rummy because I was a rum ’un—and the name stuck.”
“Which bar do you work in?”
“The long bar at the Cosmopolitan.”
“Well, perhaps I’ll look you up there one day soon and tell you how Trent is.”
“Would you? I’d be grateful if you would. I must go now or I’ll be late. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Rendell shut the door, and immediately remembered that he had not asked Rummy whether she knew Trent was at No. 77 or whether she, like all the others, had come there as that address had been given in the newspaper. Then, having decided that he would ask her when he went to the Cosmopolitan, he dismissed the subject, and began to pace up and down the room—trying to determine whether or not he should see Marsden if the latter turned up at six o’clock.
A volley of blows on the front door interrupted his attempt to reach a decision.
“That probably is Marsden—but, if so, he’s a bit early. Anyhow, I’m not letting him in.”
A one-minute silence, then another series of determined knocks.
“By God, I won’t go!” Rendell exclaimed. “I’m damned if I do.”
A few moments later he heard steps in the hall. Evidently someone had heard the summons and was responding to it. Almost immediately Captain Frazer entered the room, without the formality of a knock on the door.
“Sorry and all that,” he began, in a tone that was an even blend of insolence and servility, “but there’s someone else come about Trent. My wife tells me you’ve been good enough to——”
“Yes, I have,” Rendell cut in, “but I can’t keep on interviewing Trent’s friends for ever. May go on for days.”
“Quite—quite! Never mind. Don’t you worry. I’ll send my wife down. I’ve got to go out for five minutes. Important, you understand. But I’ll send her down. Don’t you bother.”
“She’s probably enough to do,” Rendell replied bluntly. “As you put that paragraph in the paper, it seems to me that it’s up to you to deal with its consequences.”
Captain Frazer stiffened till he became completely rigid, his right eye winking convulsively. Then, still erect as a sentinel, he turned and marched out of the room.
A moment later the front door banged.
“God! he’s gone! Hope the visitor’s gone with him.”
But Rendell soon discovered that the reverse was the fact. Frazer had evidently considered that the effect of his military exit would have been marred had he paused to close the door. It remained three-quarters open, and Rendell, who had begun to pace the room again, was not a little astonished suddenly to find that a woman stood in the doorway, regarding him with somewhat grim attention.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to trouble you,” she began in a collected manner, which, nevertheless, suggested one or two rehearsals, “to give me some information.”
“Well, why not? I’m getting pretty used to it. In an honorary capacity, you understand.”
“Is Ivor Trent still here?” she asked, with measured deliberation.
“He is.”
“He’s not still—delirious?” The last word was jerked out, despite a great, and obvious, effort at control.
“Very excited, is the phrase the nurse used—when I asked her this afternoon.”
A long pause.
Rendell made no attempt to mask his scrutiny of her, as he considered that her method of entry, and her general manner, did not necessitate elaborate courtesy.
She was about twenty-four. Her broad face, with its strong regular features, would have been commonplace had it not been for the deep-set dark eyes. The eyes might have belonged to a fanatic. Unlike Rosalie Vivian, there was nothing elusive about her figure. It was sturdy, somewhat over-developed, and seemed to rebel against the restriction of clothes.
“Yes, that’s what the nurse said some hours ago,” Rendell went on, “‘very excited,’ were her exact words.” He paused, then added: “Of course, he may be delirious again now.”
A sudden determination to humble her made him add the last sentence. Her assurance was assumed—her manner was a pose. She had consciously adopted a method to create a definite impression. Rendell was certain of it, and so he had made that reference to the possibility of Trent being again delirious—in much the same spirit as he would have shown a whip to a dog that was putting on airs.
His success was dramatic, for she blushed a deep crimson. Her embarrassment was so extreme that he shared it.
She sat down limply and half closed her eyes.
“But in all probability,” Rendell said quickly, “he’s over the delirium for good.”
“Why is he here?”
She asked the question lifelessly, with no trace of her former manner.
“Well,” Rendell began, then hesitated. After all, why should he reveal Trent’s secret? “I will only tell you that his publisher and agent were here this morning and they assume he collapsed in the street and was brought in here. Have you seen him lately?”
“No—not for months. I don’t want to see him—ever! I only came because the paper said he was——”
She broke off and again there was silence.
“I’m afraid I’m not much help,” Rendell said slowly. Then an idea occurred to him, and he added: “Do you know any of his friends?”
“I met one some time ago. A man called Denis Wrayburn.” She moved uneasily as if her memories of him were not pleasant. Then she went on: “And I met another. His name was Peter Marsden.”
“Marsden! That’s odd, because he’ll probably turn up any minute. Perhaps you’d like to see him.”
“Why?”
“Well, he was here earlier and had a talk with Captain Frazer—that’s the man who owns this house—so perhaps Marsden could tell you more definitely than I can how Trent is.”
“I’m completely indifferent as to how he is,” she replied. “Have I asked you once how he was?”
“Well, no, you haven’t.”
“If you had told me that he was dead, I shouldn’t have cared in the least. I’d have been glad. I hate him as I’ve never hated anyone—and I’m not a bad hater. All I’m afraid of is that if he’s—delirious—he might babble some infamous lies about—well—me, if you want to know.”
“I didn’t want to know particularly, or I should have asked. You volunteered the information.”
She turned to him, and their eyes met for the first time. The dark intensity glowing in hers almost startled him.
“You are a friend of his?” she asked more humbly.
“I’ve never seen him.”
“Read his books, perhaps?”
“One of them.”
“I wish to God I’d never read a line he’s written. Anyway, his books are all lies.”
As Rendell said nothing, she went on:
“You don’t agree, of course!”
“I don’t know what you mean by all lies. I’ve read only one of his books, but I read it three times. To me, it was a revelation. But I’m not a critic, like Marsden.”
She was about to speak, but Rendell silenced her with a gesture. He was standing by the window, listening intently to a minor commotion on the steps.